


Gift-Wrapped

by Arej



Series: Ineffable Advent 2019 [21]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Established Relationship, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Other, crowley's joke goes a little awry in the best way, some fun in the bookshop back room, they're not really male but it's m/m since i used male pronouns throughout, they've got a long night ahead of them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-23
Updated: 2019-12-23
Packaged: 2021-02-25 05:21:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,131
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21910636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arej/pseuds/Arej
Summary: Day 21 of the advent calendar of prompts (with added bonus inspiration from professorflowers' dtiys on tumblr!)Crowley has the perfect gag gift for Aziraphale - but he doesn't quite get the gag he's expecting.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Ineffable Advent 2019 [21]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1561027
Comments: 25
Kudos: 322





	Gift-Wrapped

When Crowley arranges himself just so on the sofa in the bookshop’s back room, he is expecting to elicit a very specific reaction. Is primed for it, even.

He’s chosen his outfit very specifically: tight black trousers, green sweater, reindeer headband for some added festive cheer. He actually acquired the sweater on a whim after spying it in a shop window; it declares ‘I’ve Been Nice’ in bold white letters across a green knit background, and he’d laughed out loud just imagining Aziraphale’s reaction if he walked into the shop wearing it. He hadn’t, of course - he has a plan, to get that specific reaction. It wouldn’t do for the angel to have any idea of what’s waiting for him back here. The sweater, the trousers, and the headband are all tied together into an outfit by the added bonus of a wide red ribbon tied around a bunch of mistletoe he’d grown himself.

Not for this reason, of course. At least, not on purpose. He’d intended the mistletoe for tying in doorways and thresholds, anywhere he might conceivably be able to steal a kiss; it’s a tradition Aziraphale has been vocally fond of for some decades, and one he’s looked forward to ever since the world failed to end over the summer. But that’s not where he’s placed it, not yet.

No, the ribbon and its mistletoe are tied around his waist, placed just under the sweater’s declaration, in direct contradiction of it. They frame a very traditionally naughty part of him, indeed.

He’s sat on the sofa with his legs spread obscenely wide, even for someone with a questionable relationship with the idea of how hips are supposed to work. That, paired with the intentional placement of his hands on his thighs, and the position of the mistletoe around his waist, all serve to frame the entire thrust of his joke: the sweater states that he’s been nice, and the mistletoe is hung just above his groin, as if expecting a reward.

The tight black trousers are unzipped and folded carefully, to avoid any zipper teeth in delicate places, especially since he’s gone without pants for the full effect. The full effect is, he knows from a quick dress rehearsal in front of the mirror in the flat, quite something: the only bit of him exposed, besides the traditional hands and face, is his erect cock, standing proud under the mistletoe. 

He’s expecting a prim response from Aziraphale, something that attempts to be disapproving but fails miserably. Something not unlike the response he’d gotten at the Bastille all those centuries ago, and quite by accident, too. He remembers it vividly - the startled glance and exclamation, followed by a furtive but unsubtle twice-over that left very little to the imagination about what, exactly, Aziraphale might be thinking about. The sequence of glances, and the expression, are seared into his memory.

It’s a memory that has kept him up nights, and one he’s eager to revisit.

In truth, that look had been the final nail in the coffin of his self-doubt; at least, his self-doubt regarding whether Aziraphale truly felt the same sparking chemistry between them. His self-doubt about reciprocal love has been an entirely different matter to settle, but after the Bastille, there wasn’t a single shred of doubt about the physical side of things. The occasional waft of lust he’d felt, had dismissed as demonic powers misreading something angelic and beyond his ken, was truly lust - stuffed down and smothered into silence, escaping only in brief flashes, but lust all the same. But at that moment in the Bastille, unquestionably, Aziraphale’s iron control had slipped. The flash and the look - Crowley had _known_ , and then it was all over but the waiting.

He just hadn’t realized how _much_ waiting.

If he thinks about it, about how Aziraphale had locked away his lustful thoughts the same way Crowley had attempted to lock away his love, how each of them had caught only the barest glimpses into the other’s emotional state, how if they’d just _communicated_ about it at any point in six millennia - he’ll either laugh, or cry, it’s so ridiculous. They could have gotten here so much faster, so much easier; but they’re here now, and it doesn’t matter, so he tries not to think about it too much. They’re here, now; the failed apocalypse reset not only the world but their relationship, this time with none of the old roadblocks. They communicated properly, finally, and are together now in every sense of the word - in love, and enjoying every intimacy they’d previously thought off-limits.

They haven’t changed, despite all that; they’re still the same angel and demon they were before Armageddon’t, just with added freedoms. Their personalities, their mannerisms, their patterns haven’t changed.

So Crowley is very much anticipating revisiting the reaction that’s carved such a home in his memory.

When he hears the telltale sound of the shutter being pulled on the bookshop door - a familiar prelude to a quiet night in - he fixes a mischievous grin on his face, slides his hands a little higher up his thighs, and waits for the angel to round the corner. Waits for the scandalized but lustful reaction he’s aiming for.

It is not the reaction he gets.

“What a lovely gift, my dear. Have you been waiting long?”

There’s no scandal - no pause, no shy glance. Just lust. There’s a twice-over, but it’s hungry instead of furtive, and Crowley’s mischievous grin slips to something more cautious even as his exposed cock throbs with interest. Aziraphale steps forward, his normally casual gait gone predatory as he fusses with his shirt sleeves and - oh, oh no, he’s rolling them up, cuffing the sleeves at the elbow in a move that turns Crowley’s throat to dust.

There is something absurdly erotic when Aziraphale, buttoned up Aziraphale, prim and proper angel, flashes even so much as a wrist. Full forearm exposure…Crowley bites back a whimper.

This is _not_ going to plan. The angel is supposed to be the scandalized one, here.

“Just what I wanted,” Aziraphale is saying. He’s undone his bowtie and unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt, so that both collar and bowtie hang free as he prowls closer, comes to a stop inside the welcoming vee of Crowley’s legs. “How thoughtful of you, darling.”

Crowley’s cock pulses, a pearl of precome beading at the tip, when Aziraphale drops to his knees.

“Angel, wait -” Crowley has one hand out in supplication, but Aziraphale ignores it; his face is bare centimeters from Crowley’s lap, so close that his warm breath washes over Crowley’s cock when he answers.

“Isn’t this beautiful package a gift for me?” the angel asks guilelessly, as if Crowley would dare to put on a display like this for anyone else.

He swallows thickly. “I - yes, but -”

“Then I don’t think I will,” comes the answer, and Aziraphale takes Crowley’s cock in his mouth all at once.

Aziraphale sucks cock like he does everything else: slowly, deliberately, with exquisite attention to detail. He maintains the same single-minded focus with a cock in his mouth as he does when he’s reading a new acquisition or trying a new menu item, except it happens every time; where menu items become routine, and books become familiar, and such things eventually receive a more casual sort of study, Aziraphale has yet to relax his attention when he has Crowley like this. His cock, or his cunt, or whatever configuration Crowley chooses to present at the time, always receives Aziraphale’s entire focus. It never fails to drive Crowley absolutely wild, until he’s writhing under the attention, begging for release.

Despite the abrupt start, this promises to be even slower and more deliberate than usual.

Aziraphale slides his tongue along the underside of Crowley’s cock, carefully, forward and then back, as if rolling the taste on his tongue. He’s left his mouth just slightly open so that his breath washes along Crowley’s length, stirs the curls at the base. Crowley whimpers.

There is an itch in Crowley’s fingers, to grab and to hold; Aziraphale, as if sensing this, tugs Crowley’s hands off his thighs to settle on the sofa. Once there, he immediately attempts to grab fistfuls of the firm cushion, dig his hands into the upholstery. It is the only thing keeping his hips from snapping upward into that hot, wet mouth.

Heavy hands settle in the places Crowley’s thinner ones had vacated, and thick thumbs drift down to rub circles into the sensitive insides of his thighs. There’s no give in the fabric of his trousers - they’re too tight for that - but the sensation drags a shiver from Crowley’s whole body, and another, and puts a hitch in his breath that only intensifies when Aziraphale closes his lips around Crowley’s cock. The velvet heat of the angel’s mouth is both a blessing and a curse; Crowley’s cock throbs desperately, and his fingers flex in the sofa cushions.

This is _not_ what he had anticipated.

It’s so much better.

Aziraphale hollows his cheeks - nothing so intense as a suck, just a change in pressure, barely enough to feel. He bobs his head gently, slowly, tongue kept flat and low so that it brushes lightly along the underside of Crowley’s cock. It would seem almost hesitant, cautious, except for the assured motions of the angel’s thumbs, the endless circles he’s tracing in that sensitive spot. 

The effect is torturous, and Aziraphale knows it. There is a self-satisfied crease around his closed eyes - closed, because he’s savoring, because he knows it won’t be long until Crowley can’t hold his head up to watch, no matter how desperately he wants to - a crease that deepens with every half-swallowed moan that slips through the demon’s lips.

Crowley lifts one hand from the deforming sofa cushion to bite a knuckle, or a wrist, or _something_ to take to focus off this lazy exploration, but Aziraphale pulls off, blinking at him.

“Is something the matter?”

“Is - no,” Crowley manages, breathless. “Just - I was -” he waves the dangling hand, then tucks one knuckle between his teeth in example.

Aziraphale tuts at him, pulls his hand back down to the divots he’s left in the sofa cushion.

“I’d like to do the unwrapping of this gift myself, if you don’t mind,” he says. Crowley whimpers again.

“Angel -”

“That means no moving, please,” comes the reply, and Aziraphale uses his considerable strength to tug Crowley forward just the right amount, pull him into the perfect position, until the demon’s head is resting on the back of the sofa, his knees somehow even wider apart than before.

“Do feel free to be as loud as you need,” he offers, almost as an afterthought, before taking Crowley’s cock back into his mouth.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Crowley shouts, and Aziraphale hums in approval.

It’s still slow and torturous, now, but deeper - with Crowley’s arse at the very edge of the sofa, Aziraphale doesn’t need to lean so far forward. He can fit the entirety of the demon’s cock in his mouth without having to stretch, so he does; settles his lips into a light seal at the base, hollows his cheeks just slightly, and starts that torturous head bobbing all over again.

“ _Angel_ ,” Crowley moans, hands twisting where they’ve been placed on the sofa. “Angel, oh, _fuck_ , Aziraphale, _please_.”

His plea goes unanswered. Aziraphale’s lips don’t even twitch in consideration. 

It’s torture, but the best kind; Crowley’s eyes flutter closed and he moans in the general direction of the ceiling. His hips give an abortive attempt at a twitch, which he stills by redirecting the urge into his fingertips - something pops, and he feels stuffing on one or more of his fingers.

Aziraphale hums in approval again, and sucks lightly, and Crowley swears a blue streak skyward. His breathing goes labored, then thready, interrupted with whimpers and whines as the angel continues his languid oral exploration.

Crowley loses track of how long Aziraphale spends on his knees, ever so slowly increasing the suction of his mouth. His fingers are plunged into stuffing where he’s punctured the upholstery through sheer desperation, and cling to fabric where the cushion has deformed itself rather than give way; his throat feels like he’s gargled with sandpaper, gone dry and desperate from moaning and shouting in equal measure. The sweater, the damnable sweater that started this whole thing, is soaked through with sweat when he finally manages a semi-coherent sentence.

“Aziraphale. Aziraphale please, angel, please, I’m begging you - harder, faster, _something_ , anything. I’m dying, angel, please.”

Aziraphale pulls off with a thoughtful hum, enough that Crowley’s screwed shut eyes wrench themselves open so he can look, and _oh_ , the sight nearly does for him right then. His prim and proper angel there, eyes sparkling with mischief, lips swollen and red, right there beside Crowley’s engorged cock - which has gone nearly purple with need - is an absolute vision.

It’s an image that might very well replace that scandalized twice-over from the Bastille in his memory, or at least earn a place right beside it. Crowley sinks his teeth into his lip so hard he tastes blood, casts the last shreds of his dignity aside, and _begs_. “Please, angel, _please_ , I can’t - have mercy. Please.”

There is a long moment where Aziraphale considers him, rubbing his swollen lips together in thought while his thumbs circle endlessly on Crowley’s spread thighs. The moment stretches; Crowley digs his fingers even deeper into the sofa cushion, and resolutely does not squirm under that considering gaze. If he squirms, he loses. If he stays still, maybe…

“I don’t think I will,” Aziraphale finally replies, and slides that gorgeous mouth back down, takes Crowley’s entire cock into his mouth and settles his lips at the base again.

Crowley nearly cracks his skull on the sofa, he flings it back so hard; the antler headband, long since forgotten, clatters to the floor. No mercy. And even worse - or better, or both - Aziraphale, the tease, has started over from the beginning; he rolls the taste of Crowley over his tongue for a long minute, then closes his lips around the shaft and just barely hollows his cheeks.

There would be a sparkle in his eye, if Crowley had the capacity to look: a sparkle, and a message. _Interrupt me again_ , it would warn, _and I’ll just keep starting over_.

So Crowley hisses and whimpers and moans and, helplessly, cries his way through what feels like hours of the slowest, most decadent blowjob imaginable. His cock gives up on throbbing to settle at an ache just this side of painful while Aziraphale slowly works his way back up to suction. Crowley loses his voice entirely, reduced to whimpers and sobs, by the time the angel begins to suck in earnest.

Despite the way his entire being has narrowed down to the exquisite torture of Aziraphale’s mouth on his cock, orgasm takes Crowley completely by surprise. He manages an “oh, _fuck_ , I’m -” before spilling sweet relief down the angel’s throat, keening when Aziraphale sucks harder, his wordless wail echoing in the otherwise silent bookshop. Aziraphale sucks him through it, mouth hot but gentle around Crowley’s softening cock, until Crowley’s thighs go lax and his keening tapers off into broken, desperate gasps.

Aziraphale pulls off and presses an agonizingly gentle kiss to the tip. His thumbs still, finally, in their ceaseless circling; he slides his hands carefully down Crowley’s trembling thighs, reaches over to pet his shaking hands, soothing and calming as the demon slowly settles, as his gasps slow to deep, heaving breaths.

“There you are, dearest. Oh, my dear boy, my sweet serpent, you did so well. You’re so good for me, my love,” Aziraphale croons. “Absolutely perfect. Just look at you, so beautiful. I love seeing you like this.”

He gently nudges Crowley back and his legs inwards, tucks them between his knees as he climbs into the lap he’s created. Aziraphale smooths his hands over the boneless noodles of the demon’s arms, the sweat-damp sweater; cradles Crowley’s face in his hands and kisses the tear tracks there, whispering reassurances all the while.

“Show me those beautiful eyes,” he murmurs, pressing kisses to Crowley’s face. “Let me see you.” Then, when Crowley rouses enough to crack first one eyelid, then the other, watch the angel’s face swim into focus before him: “Yes, there you are, my dearest love. Oh, lovely, my lovely serpent. How good you are to me.”

Crowley’s throat works in answer, but no sound escapes; Aziraphale presses a glass of cool water to his dry lips, holds it steady as he drinks it down, then another. When Crowley turns his head away halfway through the third glass, Aziraphale waves it gone.

“Beautiful, absolutely beautiful.” He cradles Crowley’s face in his palms. “Oh, my sweet serpent, what a lovely gift you made of yourself for me.”

“Th - thank you,” Crowley croaks out. He coughs, and the last half glass of water is there; Aziraphale holds it while he drinks it down, then whisks the empty glass away. “That was - you - that was amazing.”

“Oh, no, thank _you_ , dearest. It was entirely my pleasure.”

Crowley laughs into the sudden kiss, feels Aziraphale’s answering smile against his lips.

“I believe it was actually _my_ pleasure,” he teases when Aziraphale pulls away. “Unless you…?”

“Mmm, no,” the angel admits. He shifts in Crowley’s lap and the demon can feel him, there, thick and hard and trapped between them, crushing the forgotten mistletoe bundle. “I was rather distracted.”

Crowley brings his hands to the angel’s hips and slides, curls them under to cup his arse. “Will you let me, then?”

He knows to ask - so often, his angel has an idea, a plan, and while Crowley often thinks his ideas are good, somehow Aziraphale’s are unfailingly better. So he’s not entirely surprised when Aziraphale wriggles in his lap, thoughtful, before answering “No.”

He _is_ surprised when Aziraphale gestures away his clothes - his alone, not Crowley’s - with one hand and reaches back with the other to stroke Crowley’s sensitive but slowly stiffening cock.

Refractory periods are for humans.

“No,” Aziraphale repeats, and a wicked grin stretches those swollen lips as he feels Crowley hardening in his hand. “No, I’m not quite finished with my gift yet.”

Crowley’s hips twitch helplessly, pinned as he is under Aziraphale’s weight. It is exactly where he wants to be. “Not yet?”

“Not even close,” the angel replies. He shifts just so, and takes Crowley in all at once; the demon’s hips buck wildly as he slides into miracle-wet heat with no warning.

“I haven’t even got to the unwrapping,” Aziraphale laughs in his ear, and begins to move. “It’s going to be a very long night.”


End file.
